DRINKWINE: What exactly is the Ostrich Society?

The question has been asked, “What exactly is the Ostrich Society?” I’ve been asked that so many times, I sometimes wonder myself. I guess the best way to describe the Society is by saying the Ostrich Society is a place where boys collecting their social security checks come of age - at least strive to come of age. It is akin to Virginia asking if there really is a Santa Claus and looking for proof. It is a place that transcends age, relies on “proof is in the showing” and forsakes technology in favor of tradition. It is a place that rallies around the pursuit of trout and integrates the hunting of grouse, woodcock, pheasant, deer, turkey and rabbits with their fly tying needs to that end.

The antics described in this column of the Ostrich Society are proof of their life long attempt to hold on to their Peter Pan image as they wander purposefully through Never-Never Land. And in no place can it be better witnessed firsthand then at the annual Christmas party where you don’t have to look far for Santa; he’s sitting at a table sharing two finger of bourbon with “the boys”.

This year’s event was held in the usual meeting place of the Society, the Presidents garage. Pine and spruce boughs were strung over and through the rafters and a small pine tree in a pot sat on the end of the workbench – a prize for one of the attendees.

Sawhorses were set up and covered with 2x10’s and sheets for the food provided by the membership - “Poaching Jack” contributing most of the salmon, steelhead and turkey. (Don’t ask.)

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There were staples such as, jerky, Michigan chili, spiced apples, potato salad made from Elmira potatoes, vegetables from member’s gardens and cherry pies and cakes made with Traverse City cherries. The “roast beast” consisted of venison ….not supplied by “Poaching Jack”. There was a crockpot filled with homemade sauerkraut and elk kielbasa and pierogies stuffed with minced rabbit and squirrel.

The “Shakers” (the oldest living members in the Society) insisted on camp coffee which they boiled on a Coleman stove in a large enamel pot, holding down the grounds with an egg.

The bar was set up self-serve style at the end of the food table to give Oleg Johansen a brake so he could enjoy the festivities with the rest. And there was a card table for gifts for members from members.

Bird dogs were welcome, in fact encouraged, since no gathering of the Society had ever occurred without several in attendance. The only other non-human was Harold’s pet rooster who had the nicest cape and was eyed by every fly tier in the room, making Harold nervous.

Music couldn’t be agreed on - some wanting Guy Lombardo, others voting for Alvin and the Chipmunks - an Alan Cayn CD won out by default.

Guests were invited; most accepting the invitation (Judge John Hardcastle declined, stating it might be uncomfortable for him and “Poaching Jack” to be in the same room.) Several POs and COs and local politicians attended, creating the need for an extra case of libation to be brought in.

The festivities began at 7:30 with the President striking the ballpeen hammer on the workbench, declaring the Ostrich Society Christmas party officially open. The President did explain that the Society by-laws prohibited physical confrontations under penalty of expulsion and encouraged that conversations with politicians beyond an exchange of general pleasantries be limited.

Glasses were filled and toasts were made as the party carried on through the evening. Everyone filled their plates several times and special recognition went to the cooks and the providers of the game. The only melancholy moment came and went when “Poaching Jack” said he really wished that Judge Hardcastle had accepted his invitation.

Recognitions were made; one being by Jim McBride who raised his glass in a toast to the Setters in the room, who he said show more class than the Brittanys and German Shorthairs in attendance. He pointed out that the Setters wait to be hand fed, the Brittanys wait for a piece of meat to fall to the floor before eating it and the Shorthairs grab it right from the table.

Brian Johnson took exception. “German Shorthairs don’t have anything on my Brittany. Put a piece of that elk kielbasa on the table and turn your back; when you turn around again the only evidence of the kielbasa having ever existed will be on my Brittany’s breath”.

The preceding is reported to be THE TRUTH, WHOLE TRUTH AND NOTHING BUT THE TRUTH ….give or take a lie or two.